


Galway Reels

by expectopatronuts



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dancing, F/F, Falling In Love, Irish dancing to be more precise, One-Sided Attraction, Rivalry, Rivals to ???, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 20:46:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12943548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/expectopatronuts/pseuds/expectopatronuts
Summary: In her head, O’Deorain equalled shirt and tie, hair pushed back, flawless make-up. What she had before her was—well, not that.It was leggings, white loose t-shirt, red hair flopping down over her forehead.And dancing.





	Galway Reels

The list of things Angela knew about Moira O’Deorain had expanded significantly since the controversial scientist had started collaborating with Overwatch. On the first day she had found out that O’Deorain was abrasive, harsh, and left-handed (the latter information acquired after an unfortunate collision that resulted in sulfonitric mixed acid eating a hole through Angela’s new sneakers).

During the week that followed, more facts were gathered: O’Deorain’s concern for lab safety was minimal; her wit was sharper than her cheekbones; when she had to do paperwork, the contents of her thermos were one part coffee, two parts whiskey; reading Marcuse would do her good; it was better to stay away from her.

On Saturday, Angela found out that Moira O’Deorain, PhD, danced.

She hadn’t gone looking for her, of course not. The woman was bad decisions in a lab coat, and Angela had no interest in getting pulled into anything questionable. She was determined to follow her own advice and keep their contact to a minimum and always strictly professional.

So no, she hadn’t gone _looking_ for her. It had been the music (something Celtic-sounding) coming from the training facility at 6:47 a.m. on a Saturday—a novelty in Overwatch’s repertoire of crazy, as far as Angela knew—what had drawn her to the door. It had been left ajar (when would Jack get around to fixing that latch?), and the melody travelled down the corridor, pipes and fiddle interweaving.

All Angela had meant to do was look in, see what was going on, maybe laugh at Jesse and Lena’s latest ‘motivational hack’, all part of their plan to ‘get ripped as hell’. Except it wasn’t Jesse and Lena at all. She realized that as soon as she peered through the crack, but had to stare for a second before she could put a name to the figure.

In her head, O’Deorain equalled shirt and tie, hair pushed back, flawless make-up. What she had before her was—well, _not that_. It was leggings, white loose t-shirt, red hair flopping down over her forehead.

And dancing.

O’Deorain’s legs moved with fluid precision, her feet crisscrossing so fast that Angela had trouble following her movements. Her shoes were by the wall, and in her socks (grey) she made no noise as she stepped and kicked and skipped to the rhythm of the music.

Her back was ramrod straight and she held her hands stiffly at her sides, but despite the severe posture, her mouth, usually pressed into a thin, hard line, was more relaxed than she had ever seen it.

Angela stood, watching, almost transfixed, until the music stopped and she took a step back.

She should go. She had no interest in what O’Deorain did in her free time, no interest in the way her black leggings framed her calves, no interest whatsoever in the way her chest rose and fell as she got her breath back.

Angela shook her head. She had to get a grip. She had to go, she had to stop watching O’Deorain, because she had _no interest_ in how her spine relaxed marginally as she stepped out of her final pose, or the way she walked towards the other side of the room with long steps that suddenly didn’t seem gangly at all, or how she tilted her head, as though she had noticed something—

“Aren’t you going to clap, Ziegler?”

Angela froze. Though O’Deorain had spoken with her back to her, she could hear the sardonic smile in her voice, the one that barely reached the corners of her mouth. For a second she contemplated running, then she accepted defeat and pushed the door open.

“How did you know it was me?” she asked as she stepped into the training room.  

“Shot in the dark.” Her voice was thick with sarcasm. “You’re the one who’s been watching me all week,” she went on, still with her back turned, scrolling down her playlist with one finger. She shrugged with only one shoulder. “I figured if anybody was going to stalk me at seven in the morning, it would be you.”

Angela opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. Her cheeks felt suddenly very warm.

“I am _not_ stalking you,” she managed finally. “And I have not been _watching_ you.”

O’Deorain turned her head fractionally and looked at her over her shoulder. Angela saw her smile become more pronounced, the sardonic mockery reaching her eyes.

“Of course not."

She drawled out the words in a falsely sweet voice as she turned away.

Angela felt annoyance creeping up on her. She pressed her lips together and took a deep breath. She really should follow her own advice ( _it was better to stay away from her_ ), wish her a good morning and leave. Go back to the med bay, finish setting up, then have breakfast with Reinhardt, same as every Saturday.

But she didn’t.

“I didn’t know you danced,” she said instead.

Even as the words left her mouth, she heard how lame they sounded. Based on the way O’Deorain turned to look at her, eyebrows raised, so did she.

 “There are many things you don’t know.”

She accompanied her words with a little dismissive wave of her left hand, and Angela felt that—that _thing_ she felt whenever O’Deorain mocked her. She had no name for it yet, but she hated it, she knew that much. Most of all, she hated how effortlessly ( _a wave of her hand, Herrgott nochmal_ ) the other woman could get it to rise in her chest, pressing upwards to come out in the form of a harsh word or a snarl.

“Why are you like this?”

The question was out of her mouth before Angela knew it, and by the time she realized how childish she sounded, it was too late to take it back. O’Deorain’s eyebrows rose a little further, and Angela cursed herself in the seven languages she knew. She was making a complete fool of herself, and she had no idea how to stop.

“All right, Ziegler,” said O’Deorain, ignoring the question. “So you didn’t know I danced.” She run a hand through her hair. Without gel to hold it up, it flopped right back down on her forehead. “Now you do.” She spread her hands. “What is it you want? Hm?” There was a hint of true curiosity in her voice. “For me to teach you bloody Irish stepdance? Is that what it’ll take to get you off my back?”

Angela closed her eyes for a second and swallowed back the ball of humiliation building up in the back of her throat. Then she looked steadily at O’Deorain. Sunlight slanted across her face; Angela could see gold flecks in the depth of her brown eye. The blue one was the sky on a winter morning.

“Yes,” she said, raising her chin. 

In for a penny, in for a pound.

The single word was a challenge. There was no way that O’Deorain was going to teach her ‘bloody Irish step dancing’. She would tell her to go to hell, and though she didn’t know exactly what it was they were fighting _for_ , Angela would have finally won, _finally_ —

“Fine.”

Angela’s head snapped up. O’Deorain’s jaw was set, and the mockery gone from her face.

“Take off your shoes.”

She couldn’t back out now. She couldn’t let O’Deorain think she was a coward. In the back of her mind she wondered when and why walking out of an Irish step dance impromptu lesson had become a mark of cowardice, but she quickly dismissed the issue. She _would not_ let O’Deorain think she was a coward.

So Angela kicked off her sneakers (the old ones, because the new ones had a hole in them now) and the look she gave O’Deorain was almost a glare, daring her to say anything.

She didn’t. She returned the look levelly, an almost thoughtful expression on her face. Then she moved to stand behind Angela, her shadow stretching in front of her. 

“Stand straight.” The words were followed by a touch between her shoulder blades, and Angela’s spine straightened almost out of its own accord. “Relax your shoulders.”

Now, O’Deorain let her hands rest lightly on her shoulders. Angela took a deep breath in an attempt to relax, and O’Deorain was so close that she could pick up the smell of coffee, a hint of sweat, cigarette smoke. She was standing so close that they would be less than an inch apart if Angela turned around; so, so very close—

“Good,” O’Deorain said, and her hands lifted off Angela’s shoulders. She went to stand in front of her. “We’re going to do a basic two-hand reel.”

Angela nodded as O’Deorain explained and demonstrated, and focused on listening and remembering, and not on the way the sun drew gold shines from her hair, or how cold O’Deorain’s hands felt compared to her own when she told Angela to stand to her right and join hands right to right and left to left so that their arms crossed.

“Lovers’ hold, this is called,” said O’Deorain.

Angela shifted her grip on her left hand, and her knuckles brushed O’Deorain’s hip for a moment. She had to clear her throat to be able to swallow. O’Deorain glanced at her out of the corner of her eye, but didn't comment.

“We begin in this position and stand here for a beat,” she said. “On the second one, you point your right foot forward,” she demonstrated the movement and Angela copied her, “on the third one this is going to happen,” she brought her right arm up, their hands still linked, until it was behind Angela’s neck, “and on the fourth you stand on tip-toe,” Angela did, “like so, yes. And then we’re off on a promenade.”

She let go of Angela’s hands and skipped to the far end of the room. On each step, she folded her leg back, her foot pointed back, forming a perfect arch. It was hard to think that this was the same woman who leaned against the lab table at every chance, disrupting Angela’s measurements, or whose spine cracked when she stretched like a cat at the end of the day.

“That’s a promenade,” she said to Angela from the other side. “This is the step you want to use,” she demonstrated again, this time on the spot. “Now, do it.”

O’Deorain leaned against the wall as she watched Angela do every step several times. Angela didn’t need to look to know she would find a smirk on her face, her eyes sparkling with dry amusement with every comment she made.

“Raise your legs up proper, _Frau Doktor_ , don’t be lazy.”

“You look like a duck, Ziegler.”

“You’re dancing a Galway reel, not trying to seduce a drunken Scott.”

Angela ignored it all. She knew her cheeks had to be red, she could feel them burning, but she didn’t care. She would show O’Deorain. What, exactly, she wasn’t sure, but she would _show_ her and wipe that bloody smirk off her face, because she was Angela Ziegler, _verdammte_ _Scheiße_ , and if she could bring people back from the dead she could certainly dance a bloody Irish reel.

 “Passable, I suppose,” O’Deorain said finally. “With me, now. With the music.”

Angela pushed her hair away from her face, panting slightly, and went to take O’Deorain’s outstretched hand. It no longer felt as cold as it had before, she noticed.

To Angela’s surprise, it was easier with O’Deorain. Maybe it was because she wasn’t watching her, or maybe it was because she led their movements with a confidence that was almost dominating, or maybe it was the music. Whatever the reason, Angela managed to keep up, making her steps a little longer to match O’Deorain’s, raising her arms a little higher so O’Deorain could turn without stooping.

There was also a downside to it, however. Namely, that now Angela had to very consciously _not_ focus on the fact that O’Deorain’s cheekbones were covered by faint freckles that crossed over the bridge of her nose, or that up close her hair looked like feathers, hanging in thin wisps over her forehead, or that her eyebrows were slightly drawn together in concentration.

But none of it was what made her miss a step. It was flash of movement near the door—Jesse doubled over, stifling laughter with one hand over his mouth, and Lena giving her the thumbs up with a cheeky smile.

She had a split second to check that they were gone right before O’Deorain yanked her into position.

“Focus, Ziegler,” she snapped.

And they were side by side again, right hand linked with right hand, left with left, and the music carried them on until they were left facing each other one last time, holding the final pose as the last chord faded.

The look on O’Deorain’s face was inscrutable as she looked down at Angela. She still hadn’t let go of her hands as she took a small step forward. Angela could hear her own heartbeat filling the silence of the room, she could feel it in her throat.

O’Deorain bent down slightly and swept Angela’s hair away from her face. Her breath, hot on her ear, sent a shiver down Angela’s spine when she spoke, no more than a whisper.

“Happy now?”

Angela didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, couldn’t even move as O’Deorain’s lips brushed her cheek, softly.

Then she stepped back, and Angela could have sworn that, despite the way her lips formed the beginning of her sardonic smile, there was no hint of mockery in her eyes.

As O’Deorain turned her back to her, Angela raised a hand to her cheek, almost in wonder.

She was beginning to realize that following her own advice ( _bad decisions in a lab coat, better to stay away from her_ ) was going to be significantly harder than she had originally thought.

·◊◊◊·

fin

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I know nothing about Irish stepdance or writing. Feel free to point out any mistakes you spot. 
> 
> 'Galway Reels' is a track by the Allan Kelly Gang. It's also the first thing on the playlist I had on repeat while writing this, and I highly recommend you go give it a listen.


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